Seven Deadly Virtues
by DefineNormalitee
Summary: Merlin is leaving Camelot. For good. He wants answers, and he wants them now. However, what will he find? And when the choice comes - when it comes to the point of no return - who will he choose? The angels or the devils?
1. Prologue

"_Merlin!"_

Strong was the wind that shook the forest, but stronger were the tremors that shook Merlin as he stood on the brink of light or darkness; day or night; life or death.

And he can't tell them apart.

"Do it _now!_"

The wind chilled him, biting at his every soul. Impatient tears flooded his crystal heart, breaking down every single barrier that he had ever constructed and tearing apart any belief that he had ever held. But then again, he thought, torn, he had so much to cry _for_. He cried for Gwen, whose pain at being left alone once again was too great for her, with all her pride and uncommon dignity, to say; he cried for Arthur, whose pride demanded that his tears never fall; he cried for himself, whose fate had been twisted, contorted and commandeered since the day he was born.

Lastly, he cried for _her._

He stared into her eyes – her cold, fire-filled eyes, and he wondered.

_Is she a devil or an angel?_


	2. Chapter One

_I could travel the world a thousand times and still not find a single sight as beautiful as this._

Merlin crouched uncomfortably on the brink of the dusty, age-old cliff with his slender fingers wrapped firmly around the trunk of a meager beech tree and wondered if he would ever see Camelot again.

In no hurry to depart, he allowed his hungry eyes to feast on the city below him once more. It was not yet past dawn, and the rich cherry light of the sun stroked the carefully crafted thatch rooftops so gently that they sparkled lightly in the early morning radience. The castle's walls, age-old, were proving yet again that they were tougher than anyone outside of Camelot could not hope to fathom; the battle with the last great dragon had proven to be all too easy a test. The castle – the heart of stone upon which Uther had modeled his kingdom so carefully – had verified its durability ten fold, and yet… to Merlin, it seemed oddly fragile. Such a delicate, innocent eco-system, within which Uther and all of his toy soldiers teased and taunted magic – or, indeed, whatever it was that day that they did not understand – with an uncanny likeness to the arrogance of the first man, playing with fire.

And Merlin pitied them.

He pitied their ignorance, their hopelessness…

And yet for all of their faults, he couldn't help but love them. Every one.

A dazzling light reminded Merlin, blinking in the blinding illumination, that he had tarried far too long; the young warlock cursed himself for allowing himself to slip, far too easily, into a reverie.

_At this rate, I'll never bloody go._

With something akin to both a laugh and a restrained sob, Merlin stood. With one final glance, he turned his back on Camelot. And then… he was gone.

_Good night, Camelot. It's been a long day._

-x-

"Good morning, Arthur."

The prince scowled; his features, contorted from the peace of blissful sleep into the grimace of a working day, betrayed his deep-felt relief – another day. Another life, it seemed to him… and each one he was as grateful for as the last. But if he let Merlin see that, what would he do? Complain about his own bloody life, that's what. Servants. Too cocky for their own good. Quick, think up a clever and incredibly witty prince-like retort to throw him off… "Merlin, I am aware that you consider yourself very high and mighty for – how did you put it? Ah yes, saving my royal backside – but if I hear you call me anything other than _Sire _for the rest of the day, I shall take _your _backside and-"

"Stop. Now."

Arthur's eyes flew wide open.

_Oh. Dear._

"Good morning, Guinevere." The prince grinned to himself. That's it… nicely recovered. "You slept well, I hope?" The following silence left the young man wondering if it was as nicely recovered as he had thought and was rapidly floundering in his shallow mind for another quick recovery when a deep sigh relieved him of his panic.

Guinevere moved slowly into his view, covering a yawn with her right hand and holding a pair of the prince's underwear in her left. She held it aloft bemusedly. "I don't know anything of _princes, _but if I were you I wouldn't leave these lying around. People might… _assume _things."

Oh, gods. Arthur swallowed. "And did – er – you… um, _assume?_" Guinevere gave a small, amused cough, but shook her head. Arthur hadn't realised he'd been sat bolt upright until he relaxed back into his pillows. "Well that's alright then."

The silence that filled the room was not an uncomfortable; quite the opposite. Arthur found himself reveling in it, admiring the way that it linked them so tightly without either having to speak so much as a single word. It wasn't always like this; with his father, silences were hard because they were always so carefully administered that they always left the young prince wondering what it was that he had done wrong this time. With Merlin, silences were strange because that idiot never, ever stopped talking.

_Merlin._

"Where is Merlin today?" Arthur suddenly enquired, a handful of bread halfway to his inquisitive mouth. He was expecting many things; some idiotic excuse, so badly thought up that he suspected if he were to turn it over it would be marked clearly with Merlin's messy scrawl; maybe no excuse at all, only that Merlin had forgotten to get out of bed…

He wasn't expecting tears.

"Guinevere!" the prince, shocked and jolted far beyond his comfort zone, leapt up and scooped the sobbing woman into his arms. For a moment, both were stiff and helpless as puppets, but the next they were molded together, holding one another in bewilderment and sorrow. "What on earth is it?"

"It's… Merlin…" the maid sobbed. A pang of jealousy struck the prince's heart and for a moment he was ready to stride away and have Merlin's head on a pike by morning – what he wouldn't give for Gwen to cry for him like this. Then, it had passed, and he grinned sheepishly to himself, cursing his stupidity.

"Well, what has he done now?"

The indignant maid drew reproachfully from her prince's arms. Arthur frowned regretfully but let her go. "Don't you _dare_ do that, Arthur Pendragon," she warned him, a threatening finger all that the young man could see. "I know you're a prince, but you're also his _friend. _So don't you dare get on that high horse. No. Not today."

"I…" Arthur was at a loss. Not for her words, although he knew that they were true – never before had a woman talked to him that way. Well. A woman who wasn't Morgana. "I'm sorry that you… that you see me that way," he responded – bewildered completely when he found for it to be true. "Please continue."

The maid considered him for one, suspecting second before allowing herself to fall back into the safety of his arms. "He's not been the same since… since the dragon. None of you have, but him least of all…" she shook her head, more tears falling helplessly onto the hand cradling her chin. "I look at him, and sometimes I wonder… if my friend is still in there." Her voice, already paper thin and worn, ripped on the word friend, and dissolved into a forlorn puddle on the last.

It took several minutes for Arthur, terrified and confused, to console the howling girl in his arms; Merlin had once said that to learn something, you had to do it first hand. _If he were here, I'd show him my bloody hand, alright._

"So where is Merlin?"

More tears.

With a sigh, the prince began to loosen Gwen's iron-like grip on his strong arms, restraining a gasp when the flow of blood gushed into his deprived arms. "Stay here," he gasped, placing her solidly on the bed. She seemed unaware that he had left her, he reflected with a sour recognition. "I'm going to get Merlin, and we are going to _talk_."

She did not look up as he ran from the room, not even bothering to wonder what the pained look on his perfect face was all about. Arthur reflected this unhappily, massaging his arms. That was going to leave a mark… and not just Gwen, either. Merlin was bound to leave mental bruises on him, too, what with all this _talking _malarkey. How long could Merlin talk for? Ten minutes? Twenty? An _hour? _Gah. The things one did for love…

With a burst of sudden, joyful laughter, Arthur sped around the corner and crashed through Gaius' study door... "Gaius! Where is that lazy servant-"

…only to come screeching to a halt when he processed the look on the wise man's old face.

He did not need to say the words for Arthur to know them, off by heart.

"Merlin is gone," the prince gasped.


	3. Chapter Two

Merlin cringed away from the suspicious glare of the giant before him. Shivering under the steel gaze that was currently boring a hole where he stood, the young warlock glanced away, unable to meet the inn keeper's eye. The Inn was, as Inns went, no spectacle; the straw on the floor would not so easily offend the eye had it not been mixed in a stomach-turning soup of blood, spit and what many hoped to be ale. The furnishings were the very definition of the phrase 'one foot in the grave' – all who looked upon them looked away hastily, lest the tables and chairs should crumble into sawdust under their eyes.

Still, Merlin reminded himself, it was food, drink and a… well, not so much a _safe _bed for the night… or even a _warm _one… but a bed was a bed, no matter how many bugs they had woven into their fabrics.

"So you'll be stayin'…" the steel gaze shifted as the inn keeper spat through raw, toothless gums. "…'ow long, exactly?"

"One night only." How Merlin longed to be in Camelot, to hear the tones of subtle wit and _intelligent conversation_… "I shall leave at dawn."

The large, rounded man nodded. "You'll pay now." It wasn't a question, or even a request; silently, Merlin handed over most of what little money he had in his pocket. The giant nodded begrudgingly and, with one last suspicious at the innocent-looking man before him, turned to lead Merlin to his room. Not so much turn as tilt: the many scars on the back of the inn keeper's perfectly rounded head informed Merlin just how long it had taken for the message 'never turn your back' to really sink in.

"You're just through 'ere." Merlin jumped as the rough voice harshly interrupted his rarely peaceful musings. "I'll expect you gone by dawn." And then the man was lumbering away, grumbling something disjointed about foreigners. Merlin slipped quickly into the room, allowing himself a small sigh. It was at times like these when Merlin really had to examine how much of an effect working in Camelot had had on him; less than five years ago he would have jumped to have slept in a bed like this one, sheltered as it was by real walls of stone – but as it was, he found himself reluctant to climb into it because he was sure that it contained any number of bugs, and the variously coloured stains on the sheets left little to the imagination. Still, a bed was a bed, and Merlin stepped into it with a shudder and tried to close his eyes.

A minute later and after some irate thought, the young warlock got up and rifled through his bag until he found his knife and money. The small leather pouch, containing a few meager coins, he slipped into his shoe. You could never be too careful.

-m-

When the blood red light of dawn filtered through the miniscule window of Merlin's temporary sanctuary, the young warlock was already pulling his bag onto his back. Having established that his purse was still safely secured inside his left shoe, he slipped out of the room only to gasp when his foot encountered something soft and fatty; the inn keeper's gave a rasping snore, oblivious to the fact that his not so subtle resting place had been easily discovered. Merlin smiled. He was sure that the fact that his money still rested in his possession was not for lack of trying on the large man's account.

The streets were empty when Merlin stepped outside, save a few lone travelers – easily identifiable by the way their wind-worn backs were bowed beneath their limited loads. The warlocks' breaths came in long, even bursts, clouding the freezing air around him. Dragons' breath, they had called it as children. Merlin smirked and walked on.

Upon reaching the outskirts of the small village in which he had slept, Merlin slowed slightly with a sigh; ahead of him was a large gate, either side of which a bulky guard stood. One appeared to be arguing with a young woman, but the other seemed to have already seen him and was watching his progress with a curious eye. Realising too late that it was either turn around – therefore arising suspicion, which he had hope not to do so near to Camelot – or try to slip through without appearing distrustful, the young warlock sighed once more and pressed on.

"I'm telling you, I just want to visit my aunt in Thorndon. Now, if you'd just let me through-"

The arguing grew ever louder as Merlin approached, unnoticed by the young woman and occupied guard. As he drew to an unwilling halt, neither glanced at him. The other guard appraised him with bored eyes and spoke in a dull monotone. "State your name and intention."

"I am Arthur," Merlin lied flawlessly, yet he did not miss the way the girl's eyes flickered to him mid-sentence. "I wish to pass and travel to my new master's lodgings in…"

When Merlin faltered, the other guard – no doubt tired of his current engagement and the energy it required – turned to face him. He shifted uncomfortably under the older man's gaze. "What did you say your name was again, boy?"

"Arthur…?" It sounded like a question in Merlin's tense mouth. The girl smirked. He shot her a dirty look.

"You wouldn't be Earl Edmund's new boy, would you?" Merlin tried to hide the imminent relief on his face; thank god, once again, that all guards really are just as stupid as they look. To his left, the girl let out a low whistle.

"Yes," Merlin seized on the opportunity thankfully. "And if you don't mind, I'm going to be late…"

"Oh, of course, son," the guard nodded, and glanced meaningfully at his companion, who turned to open the gates. "Don't want to keep his lordship waiting, now," he winked. Merlin tried his best to join in with the man's raucous laughter as he all but ran through the gates.

His relief was short lived: a few meters along the road, he heard the argument pause again as a newcomer approached the gate.

"State your name and intention."

"Arthur Coulson – I seek to pass in order to reach Earl Edmund's household, in which I have a position."

_Oh, no._

"COME BACK 'ERE!"

The empty road ahead of him was – well, empty. No where to hide. Nothing to do but run.

_Unless… _

Merlin surveyed the situation; by the time the real Arthur could fetch help, the guards would be dead and he gone. Of course, Uther would be suspicious, but Arthur hadn't got a proper look at him… not a single witness…

The young warlock took in a deep breath and turned to face the gate behind him; the guards were still fumbling with its lock, cursing. With a grim smile, Merlin raised a steady hand; maybe the gate would hit all three of them as it came crashing down. Three birds, one stone…

"_In here!_"

With a small yelp, Merlin's world began to spin as a firm hand gripped his arm and pulled him off the road into the undergrowth at the side of the road. Groaning as his head made contact with a rock, another hand was clamped over the young man's mouth.

"_Idiot_…"

The guards went crashing past, breathing heavily and shouting profanities to the open road ahead. Merlin struggled against his savior's strong arms, but they held still; it became apparent why a moment later, when the real Arthur wandered past, bemused and slightly dazed.

"You really are an _idiot_!" the person continued at full volume now that all three men had passed and they were well enough alone. "Who decides to stand and fight without the aid of so much as a pin to fight _with_?" The person paused, as if waiting for Merlin to speak. "oh. Sorry…" they lifted their hands away.

Now, free, Merlin turned to face his helper; he froze, his mouth wide open. She chuckled.

"You look like a fish."

Obediently shutting his mouth, Merlin shifted so that he could more accurately survey the woman beside him – the same woman, he now realised, that had been arguing with the guard back at the gate. Chuckling again under his confused gaze, she stood, holding a hand down to help him up.

"You can't sit down there all day."

Merlin stood without her aid. She did not comment, choosing instead to drop her hand to her side as though nothing had happened. Together, they silently approached the road.

"So, _Arthur, _where about are you headed?" Merlin stayed silent. The girl groaned. "are you mute, or just very _very _shy?"

"My mas- friend says I talk too much," Merlin said cautiously.

"I can't quite imagine that," she grinned. Unable to help himself, Merlin returned the smile; her enthusiasm was infectious. "Finally, a smile!" She beamed. "Again, where are you headed?"

Merlin paused, reluctant. The girl nodded. "Fine. You don't have to tell me. But where have you come _from? _I've never seen you here before."

"Camelot," Merlin answered easily. That, at least, couldn't do any harm to answer. "You?"

"Why did you leave?" The girl continued, ignoring his question. Merlin frowned, but let it pass.

"I… I made a mistake."

"We all make mistakes." The girl leaned forwards confidentially. "The trick is to make mistakes when nobody else is looking."

He couldn't help but laugh, and shake his head; the girl leaned back, a small smirk upon her bow-shaped lips. "I tried that once… many times. Needless to say, it…" The laughter gone, Merlin frowned. "It didn't work."

The girl's smile faded quickly as she examined his face; Merlin wondered what on earth he could look like. When she spoke, it was so quietly that Merlin had to lean in slightly to hear her. "What is your name?"

"Arthur."

She snorted, and continued to stare.

Merlin's sharp intake of breath made her narrow her eyes; should he hide his identity? Could it really matter? _Better safe than sorry, _Merlin reflected dryly. "Matthew. My name is Matthew." Seemingly satisfied, the girl nodded but was not forthcoming when Merlin waited. "And yours?"

"Freya." Merlin froze, his eyes fixed upon the stone cold earth beneath him. He became aware of her eyes – Freya's eyes – watching him curiously, and fought to regain control of his expression. Once satisfied, he met her eyes once more.

"And where are you going, Freya?"

"Thereabouts," she waved noncommittally towards the mountains on the eastern horizon. "I'm not taking the road," she added, "and neither should you." Freya nodded towards the road ahead; the bulky silhouettes of the two guards were lumbering towards them. Merlin groaned; she smirked, and reached out to take his hand. "Come on."

For the second time that morning, Merlin found himself dragged into the forest by the strange girl that he had met only minutes before. She did not release his hand, holding it in hers almost as though she had forgotten it were there as she continued to chatter away the peaceful silence. At first, Merlin might have resented the intrusion, but now he felt himself warming to it. Her heart was even warmer than the soft hand Merlin held in his; he found himself, suddenly, admiring the way her dark hair moved in the dappled sunlight as it filtered through the greenery above, and telling jokes merely to hear her laugh. Merlin lost track of any time as it passed, merely reveling in the joys of newfound company. It had been a while since Merlin had last laughed.

It was a disappointment when the road was finally in sight again, but even more so when she kissed his cheek and departed, leaving him alone on the darkening road without a backward glance.

-x-

"We've searched the southern borders completely, sire. No sign at all…"

Arthur faltered. To his left, a knight spoke up helpfully. "And the western forest is empty, too, sire."

"Yes… yes," Arthur resumed. "The western forest is empty…"

Uther looked up; when he did, it was with the expression with which he usually reserved for incompetent servants and accident prone knights. The expression had caused many a man to quake in his boots, but not Arthur; he was far too busy staring out of the window.

"_Arthur!_"

The young knight and prince looked back to his King in surprise, his eyes wide with innocence. "Yes?"

Uther took a short moment to survey the troubled prince. With a sigh, he nodded to the guards at the door, who opened them. "Thank you. That will be all." With relieved bows and quiet mutters from all corners of the court, the knights and nobles alike departed. "Except you, Arthur."

What followed was a short pause, then a confused rush: no one wished to be caught in the same room with the King in this mood, but all wished to stay and take away some small morsel of gossip on which the vultures could feed. After a while, however, everyone had departed. All was silent in the hall.

Once alone with his only son, Uther wasted no time; that was the way it always was, Arthur reflected detachedly. Not a moment with a father, but rather a lifetime serving a King… There were times when he minded this more than others.

Today, though, was not one of those times.

"What is _wrong _with you, Arthur?" The King snapped. His eyes were filled with the hatred of disobedience that had ruled Arthur's life since he had been a young boy. "This is serious!"

"I _know_."

"Then why does it not demand your entire attention?" The King's voice had risen until – quite suddenly – he was shouting.

_Nothing changes_.

"I'm sorry, _Sire_," Arthur spat through gritted teeth. "It won't happen again." Uther relaxed, having obviously mistaken his son's grimace for a smile. He nodded.

"Of course. You depart in the morning."

Arthur bowed stiffly, and stalked from the room. Uther, on the other hand, smirked as he strolled leisurely across to his throne. Children. Sometimes, he thought, they just need a firm hand to stop them from disobeying.

-a-

"We're on."

Arthur's teeth remained clenched, but his resolve was unharmed. Guienevere and Gaius hurried in his wake, wide eyed at the prince's ready disobedience.

"Are you quite sure, Sire?" The physician enquired nervously. "After all, if you were caught…"

"I am _quite sure_, Gaius. If it wasn't for this blasted search for Morgana, I'd be out there right now." The Prince shook his head in disgust. "You would think that by now, my father would have learnt who his enemies are."

Gwen made a small, disapproving noise, but none commented as they finally slowed to a stop outside Arthur's chambers. The prince wheeled around to face him.

"I leave in the morning. I'll have Merlin back by the end of the week."


	4. Chapter Three

_Crack._

Gaius believed that, when the human body had become adjusted – acclimatized, almost – to certain things and the response that followed, then those adjustments became permanent. Reflex, really.

So, for example, if Merlin – Merlin, who spent most of his life listening out in the darkness for such noises, as such noises usually preempted a violent, rather bloody encounter with someone he certainly did not want to meet – had been safely asleep by the glowing embers of his meager campfire and had heard said noise –

_Crack._

The warlock's eyes snapped open.

There it was. That unmistakable sound – the sound, of course, of someone who did not want to be heard. That cracking of branches. The rustling of dead leaves.

If Arthur had been here, Merlin was certain that the intruder would not have gotten much further; it was the Prince's reflex at hearing such a noise to ensure that the person disrupting their sleep did not carry on disrupting for much longer. He would have jumped up and flourished his sword, and driven that noisy nighttime stroller far away. Far, far away.

If Morgana had been there – Gwen, even – Merlin knew without a doubt that they would have assisted him. That was their reflex.

Merlin's reflex?

_Run! Run! Run!_

_Let Arthur take care of them!_

But Arthur, he realised with a growing dread, was not here.

_Nor should he be, _a rather cynical part of the young boy's mind piped up indignantly. _It's time we learnt how to fight our own battles!_

_But can't we do that some other time? _A different, very timid part hoped.

_No!_

_Shut up, all of you, _the small yet very loud voice of reason bellowed. The voices fell silence. _Stay very, very still. And put that fire out!_

"_Sutheir_," Merlin whispered, and watched as the fire died as swiftly as though someone had thrown a blanket over it. It was, in comparison to the other voices, a very small one. So now the voices in his own head were louder than he was. This struck him as slightly tragic, yet even more funny, and Merlin had to stuff a blanket into his mouth to keep from laughing. Paranoia was doing odd things to his sense of humor.

Then, all of a sudden, nothing was very funny anymore.

"Arise, Sir Matthew," a cool voice drawled. The pulse in Merlin's neck leaped violently against the cool, steel blade of the knife pressed against it. Warm breath hit the back of his head.

Then the knife was gone, and Merlin was blinking into the face of none other than his very own guardian angel.

"Freya!"

The woman's quiet laughter echoed off the corners of the world – or so it seemed to Merlin, who experienced quiet yet powerful joy at the new presence that filled his inconspicuous bower with light, despite the late hour. Freya laughed lightly at his response, but her eyes were elsewhere; following her nervous gaze, Merlin frowned into the flickering shadows that the fire cast upon the surrounding oaks. Was it a trick of the light, or was there something… moving? He blinked, and it was gone. Merlin berated himself for believing such things, even for a moment – it was the lateness of the hour that he blamed for such mistakes. He turned back to his companion to find her smiling at him, and so glorious was the smile that the boy's mouth fell wide open at the vision of the dark haired angel before him.

"You look like a fish," she mocked him again, the corners of her lips twitching upwards as she lifted a hand to gently close the young boy's mouth for him. Merlin blushed at the contact, and Freya quickly dropped her hands. "Do you have any food, Matthew?" She blinked apologetically at him and patted her empty stomach. "Starved."

The young warlock, hurrying to his bags in search of the bread that he had so carefully rationed, felt a lift that he had not felt possible in her presence – in anyone's presence. It seemed, to him, as though things were picking up.

Yes… yes, of that he was sure. The angels were delivering him. Come the morning, everything would be alright.

-m-

Merlin could hardly believe his eyes when, despite all efforts not to lift them too high, all of his hopes were fulfilled; by the side of the fire – drying in the early morning sun – was Freya's rucksack.

For the woman herself, Merlin could not say… but her bag was here. That could only be a good thing.

Busying himself with collecting firewood by the trickling stream, not a mile from where he had slept, Merlin hardly noticed the advancing footsteps – and, yet again, that tell tale crack of dry twigs underfoot. He noticed, though, when – for the second time in as many days – a knife was pressed against his throat.

"You're not getting any better at this," the light voice murmured – far too close to Merlin's over-large ears, which reddened at the almost-contact. Freya withdrew, laughing. "Come on. Let's hit the road."

Merlin turned to face her, eyes wide. "You… don't want breakfast first?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you?" As if to answer, Merlin's stomach rumbled. Freya laughed. "That can only mean yes. I suppose we'd better eat first, then." As the pair turned and trudged through the undergrowth, she eyed him with interest. "Hmm… you didn't seem the type."

Her gaze was met briefly by Merlin's narrowed eyes. "What type, exactly?"

"The 'breakfast first' type. The…" She looked away from the boy's ocean blue eyes to keep from toppling into the undergrowth over a log that had fallen into their path. "Noble type."

Merlin gaped at the back of her head – a mistake that ensured that he landed in a patch of brambles a second later. Wincing, he pulled himself to his feet. "I do _not_." She turned for a moment and raised an eyebrow at him. He looked away. "It's not _my _fault. Living with Arthur's softened me up."

"Arthur?" Her voice was quiet. Merlin cursed himself for his problematic slip of the tongue. "So he is real."

"Yes, he's real." His tone must have communicated that he did not wish to discuss the matter further, and she feel silent. Soon after, Merlin relaxed enough to slip into the easy manner that he obtained only around Arthur, or Gaius. So peaceful… so serene… it seemed as though this wood was the only place on earth, he and Freya the only people.

Although, Merlin reflected with a secretive grin, he would not have minded being the only man, had Freya been there too – her beauty grew for every second of the day that he was with her. Her dark hair danced ethereally, the blood red light of dawn contrasting oddly with her ivory skin. The hat that Merlin had not noticed before – a small, woolen hat, perched atop her head – was dark as the conservative fabrics that barely concealed her shapely form. Merlin found himself blushing at such a prospect. Arthur had always been the one to think these thoughts, say these things. _I really need to stop spending so much time with him._

"So what do you want?"

Freya's voice dragged him back into reality, and he realised that – in his reverie – he had trailed after her into the depths of the clearing in which they had slept. It took another moment for him to realise what she had said.

"You don't want me to cook?"

Freya raised an eyebrow at the surprise in his voice. "No… I meant, do you want me to catch you something?" Then Merlin noticed the knife, glinting in the light, that perched in her slender fingers. Fingers that, even after all that he had seen, Merlin could not even begin to imagine wrapped around the handle of a sword.

"Um…"

Freya rolled her eyes and darted – uncannily fast – into the undergrowth, leaving Merlin alone in the shadowy clearing.

-x-

_Gaius,_

_You know how – when there's been a robbery, or something – people always do that thing… what's it called? Oh, yeah. Re-assessing. Well, that's what I'm doing. Re-assessing._

_I've gone to the Baneor Mountains, in the hope that they might be able to give me some answers. Also, should that dragon appear anywhere along the way, I'll give him a kick in his fiery backside from you and the rest of Camelot. God knows he deserves it._

_I would say keep Arthur out of trouble, but that's my job – and also much, much harder than you'd think. So I'll just say keep an eye on him, and if there's any trouble… well, I'm sure you'll know what to do. You always do._

_Tell Gwen not to worry about me – I'll be back soon. Well… maybe not very soon, but I will be back. I promise. Just as long as it takes me to get some answers._

_Tell Arthur that he's a prat – a royal one – and that it was an honour serving him. Tell him thank you from me. For everything._

_If mother needs me… you won't be able to reach me. It's too dangerous where I'm going. Don't follow me._

_Thank you. You were – are – like a father to me._

_Merlin_

"You didn't say there was a letter."

Gaius, jolted out of a dreamless sleep by his friend's unexpectedly harsh voice, blinked at the handmaid before him – and, more worryingly, the letter in her hand.

"Gwen." The old man sighed, blinking the sleep out of his aged eyes. "I thought it better if-"

"If _what_, Gaius?"

The man sighed once more. He reached out to take the young maid's hand, and she did not pull away. "Don't worry about him. Arthur will find him."

Gwen's scowl softened. "You think so?"

"I know it."

Upon seeing the soft smile upon the handmaid's lips, Gaius felt a strange tug of despair at his heartstrings. For he wished, with all his heart, that that were true. Oh, how he wished…

As Gwen turned to hurry out of the physician's chambers, the old man hobbled towards the windows with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked out across the courtyard and sighed. "All hell is empty… all the devils are here."


	5. Chapter Four

For the second day on the run, Merlin found himself at the mercy of a sword that definitely hadn't looked quite so sharp the minute before.

"Get up."

As he scrambled to his feet, he never took his eyes from the blade before him; his opponent nodded approvingly. Mockingly, it seemed, in the young warlocks' frustrated eyes.

"Good," she said, and positioned her sword. Merlin was even more frustrated when he noted that it did not waver, as his did, but stayed steady. "Again."

Then, for what Merlin later claimed grumpily must be the hundredth time, Freya launched into a complex weave of movements with her sword – movements that he could never hope to master, and also that would see him on the floor in a matter of seconds.

"This is getting out of hand," he later complained to her, bowl of something that might pass for soup in one hand and bandages in the other as Freya attended to the numerous cuts and bruises on his arms with hands that were surprisingly tender, despite the lashing she had just delivered to the embarrassed young warlock. "Every time you beat me, I down a bowl of soup. We'll be out of food soon unless you show a little lenience."

"Or maybe I should beat you more often – you need fattening up," Freya teased. Merlin glared at her. For a moment, their eyes met, and neither seemed able to tear their gaze away.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," the woman apologised, backing away instantly and lowering her eyes. She cursed when she noticed that Merlin had dripped soup all over her leggings.

"Sorry," he apologised instantly, moving forwards – although to do what, he did not know. "I'll just… um…"

"I'll take care of it," she murmured softly, not meeting his eyes. Merlin sighed and sat with a huff as he watched her trudge towards the bags.

"Back to square one…"

-m-

The young warlock tried helplessly to fight against the urge to look at his female companion as they rode in a silence that was – to Merlin's sensitive ears – unbearable. He felt as useless as he had when fighting the woman herself that very morning: no matter how hard he fought, one party would always have to win.

_Who wrote this stupid rulebook, anyway? _Merlin scowled to himself.

He gave up on fighting to look to the road ahead – hopeless as his efforts were – and tried another tactic. Merlin tried to take interest in all of the other natural beauties around him; the way the midday sun slipped through the emerald canvas above, casting a dark and ethereal shadow on those below the security of the outstretched arms of the giant, knotted trees. The way the morning dew still lingered on the petals of a delicate flower, or the tip of a stem of grass, bowed over under the steady weight.

But the right things to look at soon became the wrong things to examine as Merlin identified the reasons _why _he was attracted to them quite so much: that green was the exact colour of Freya's jewel-like eyes; the complexion of that flower matched hers perfectly, a soft rose-tinted cream; that grass the delicate representation of Merlin's stubborn perception of his friend, however untrue. Merlin cursed himself for his inability to think of anything but the woman a few feet from him; he cursed once more, out loud, as his lack of concentration allowed a large branch that Freya had easily ducked underneath moments before to hit him in the chest and knock him down.

Merlin was not at all impressed at how long his companion took to stop laughing, and was especially frustrated when she insisted on sitting down for a moment to 'recover'. However, when he noted her proximity, his heart raced and his frustration was a thing of the past. In her newly replenished good mood, Freya had to speak with him again, hadn't she?

"I would swear you do those things on purpose," she chuckled, wiping a tear from her eye as Merlin wondered at the velvet texture to her song-like voice. "They happen to often to be accidents."

All at once, Merlin's happiness vanished. He glared at her. Freya, upon noticing his scowl, broke into fresh peals of laughter as she nudged the young warlock's side.

"Oh, don't be like that. Even you have to admit… you don't have the best…"

"Best _what_?"

"Balance," she finished meekly. Merlin sighed at the sight of her shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh. Another three seconds, and she abandoned the attempt. Tears fell to the earthen floor like dew, carpeting the grass beneath their weary feet. Soon enough, Merlin in turn forgot his foul mood and laughed a gentle harmony to Freya's joyfully melodic laugh.

Both were reluctant to start walking once more, and so simply sat comfortably at the side of the road, awkwardness long forgotten. The silence was a friendly one, and fell easily on the ears that listened only for the sound of Freya's breathing. A few minutes later, the woman began to sing in a strange, weaving language for which Merlin had no name other than _beautiful_. The young warlock grudgingly added 'good singer' to the long list of Freya's imperishably numerous talents.

The young boy listened in silent awe, doing all he could to stay as silent as possible so as not to miss a single note. having heard little of it, apart from those repetitive village songs that were unmistakably _dull_, Merlin was more than a little surprised as to how the music forced a reaction; his worries, numerous as they were, no longer seemed quite so large or so troublesome. His heart swelled with love and pride for the seemingly perfect woman seated beside _him_, of all people. A woman that, he now realised, had taken far more than just his dignity – or what little left he had had.

Merlin had never been in love before.

He had heard it _described _many a time; from Arthur, who professed to have been the subject of many women's affections, and claimed that love was merely a passing fancy, something to be disregarded for the sake of a man's honour – that was wrong, the young boy realised now. And Gaius, who had called love any number of complicated names and labeled it as 'a grievously pleasant affliction for which there is no cure' – that might have been right. Merlin supposed he would just have to see. But Gwen had called it something entirely different – she said that love was something that you never knew you wanted. However… seeing as the handmaid had coupled those wise words with the phrase 'The worst thing is holding on to someone who doesn't want to be held on to' before bursting into inconsolable tears, Merlin had vowed then never _ever _to try to begin to understand.

But what, he argued, if he had no choice?

It took Merlin a moment to realise that Freya had finished her song and was staring at him curiously. He flushed and looked away. Having fished helplessly around the mind that seemed younger than ever before for something to say, he was relieved when Freya spoke tentatively.

"That song was written in my native tongue – it's called…" she paused for a moment, frowning, as if struggling to remember something. Then her face lit up and she bit her lip, looking for all the world as though trying not to laugh again. "Lucifonian. From my home land."

"Lucifonian?" Merlin repeated with a frown. "I've never heard of it before. Where are you from?"

"Far further south than here. I honestly don't know how you stand this _unbearable _cold." Merlin salvaged the information happily, laughing as the woman shivered and drew her clothes closer to her agile frame. Once more, the pair fell into silence. Merlin contemplated the atmosphere – easy, it seemed, and a lot less awkward than before.

_Here goes nothing._

"Freya…" he began hopelessly. "About this morning…"

The woman leapt to her feet, looking uncomfortable.

"We'd better get going if we want to reach Ankaer by nightfall," she told him briskly before setting off, not hesitating in the slightest. Merlin sighed and clambered to his feet.

It looked as though Guinevere was right.

-x-

Arthur's back groaned; his vertebrae popped in and out of place as he stood, wincing at the ache in his weary joints. With a roll of his shoulders and a crick of his golden head, the prince climbed back onto his equally tired horse and nudged it gently out of a standstill.

This horse had had enough; it shook its head a few times before tumbling to its knees. Arthur, whose many years of experience at the reigns had prevented him instinctually from falling, sighed and stepped away. He removed the horse's bridle and saddle, stowing them safely in his bags before giving the magnificently exhausted beast a clumsy pat on its long neck. It whinnied gratefully before standing once more and bowing its mighty head, falling into a welcome slumber. Arthur regarded the upright horse for a moment, wondering how it was that it managed such a thing, before he reminded himself that he hadn't slept for at least twenty hours and was most likely delusional. He got out his blankets and unrolled them. A few hours sleep wouldn't do any harm, he decided. It took a while and many creaking bones for the prince to settle down, wincing.

As he rolled uncomfortably on the frozen, lumpy earth, Arthur forced himself – not for the first time – to remember why he was doing this; for Gwen, obviously. She missed that bloody idiot. Arthur didn't, of course. Him, the crown prince, pining after a stupid, whining servant. No matter how much Gwen and Morgana might speculate, that blundering oaf was _not _his friend. Just a servant.

_So… why are you here again? _Asked a smug voice that sounded suspiciously like Morgana's. Arthur groaned and shoved her snide comments to the back of his mind, drawing his cloak over his head as though he wished to drown them out. From the dark confines of his skull, the young prince could have sworn he heard her cackling.


End file.
